


in the cradle of the moon

by sootandshadow



Series: you're like an anchor on my soul [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Incest, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow
Summary: Sleep is the one thing that evades them both. He can tell by the darkening circles under Dante’s eyes that his brother suffers as he does, uneasy and unable to properly let his guard down, but Vergil is marginally confident they’ll get over this too. They’ve graduated to being in the same room together for an extended period of time without actively trying to kill each other, after all. All things considered, they’re doing pretty well for two half-demons who barely know each other. Vergil has even stopped flinching at sudden noises.Naturally, this is the perfect time for the local demon population to clue in that there are two Sparda-sired demons living under the same roof, and take that information as an invitation to attack.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: you're like an anchor on my soul [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561204
Comments: 7
Kudos: 174
Collections: Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	in the cradle of the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Second pinch-hit for the Spardacest Secret Santa, for the prompt "Vergil has difficulty sleeping." 
> 
> Special thanks to Sen and Quix who support me and my defeated moaning about 3DV being uncooperative. <3

The… “shop”, if the building Dante owns can even be called such a thing, is an absolute _disaster_.

Vergil eyes the wreckage of what he imagines must once have been the building’s door, makes note of the sheer volume of broken furniture bits and other debris, and wonders if he made the right choice by coming here. It’s not as though his living quarters have been something to write home about these past ten years either; truly, Vergil has slept in many a place more threadbare and derelict than this. But those places had been that way as a result of infrequent use, not because their owners couldn’t be bothered to keep them in a livable state. 

Those places hadn’t been occupied by demons of a similar caliber to himself, either. Though faint, Vergil can smell Dante here, his brother’s unique not-quite-demon, not-quite-human scent wending its way amongst the more overpowering smells of recently opened booze and day-old pizza. It burns at the back of his nose, sharp and struck-match-sulfuric, the smell of his brother somehow equal parts familiar and foreign. 

_Caution_ , his instincts advise, prickling in a way that sets his teeth on edge, makes him want to curl his lips back in a snarl. Beside him, Vergil can feel Dante stiffen, almost as though he can read Vergil’s mood without even looking at him. His brother has always been like this though, weirdly attuned to his feelings but particularly linked whenever he perceived even the hint of offense. 

“ _Listen—_ ” His brother starts, already sounding sulky, “It’s not my fault the uninvited guests to your little party got lost.” 

Vergil clicks his tongue, schooling his expression into something more composed. There’s nothing to be gained by poking at his brother’s sore spots, least of all when the both of them are exhausted from their trials atop the tower. Even so, he can’t quite let Dante have the last word. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah but you were thinking it. Just for that, you can sleep on the couch.” 

Said couch is currently toppled over, with the stuffing oozing from a few claw-made tears to its cushions. It, like the rest of this “shop”, has definitely seen better days. Vergil gives it an unimpressed look. “How generous.” 

“That’s me, Mr. Charitable.” 

Dante smirks at him, a truly mocking lilt of his lips, spreading his arms wide as he gestures to the breadth of the office. “Might as well make yourself comfortable.” 

His bravado would be more convincing if his shoulders weren’t quite so tense and his eyes didn’t keep darting towards Vergil, like he half-expects his brother to draw his katana without warning. Vergil is tempted to be that predictable, if only because Dante’s behaviour is making him twitchy. (It would serve his brother right.) Ultimately, he decides against it, even as his thumb caresses the decorated edge of the Yamato’s tsuba. Fighting now would prove nothing, least of all which of them is truly stronger. Besides, Vergil can already feel the tell-tale sluggishness in his limbs that means he’s already pushed his body to the edge of its limits — anything more and he’ll pay for it dearly. 

With great dignity, Vergil picks his way across the debris-littered floor towards the upended sofa, righting it with an easy flick of his wrist. Despite its rather pathetic looking cushions, the couch is, surprisingly, rather comfortable when he settles himself down on it, sliding the Yamato off his belt loop and resting her scabbard against his shoulder. It’s a familiar pose, one he’s adopted for countless nights whenever he sought temporary shelter on his travels. There’s a kind of comfort to it, even though this is the first time he’s had to take shelter in the company of another demon. 

(Even without looking, he can sense Dante’s presence, tracking his brother’s meandering form around the office as Dante moves from messy pile to messy pile and mutters angrily about it. He knows Dante is stalling, knows he’s lingering longer than he ought to probably because he’s as unsettled as Vergil is, torn between wanting to keep Vergil where he can see him and wanting to go lick his wounds. It’s annoying.) 

“ _Good night_ , Dante,” he says with an air of finality, hoping the words will force his brother into doing something other than pretend he’s got business in the front room. They won’t get any rest, not when they’re lurking on the edges of each other’s periphery, and Vergil feels as though he’s had more than enough company for one day. After so many years of solitude, Dante’s presence is starting to become grating in a way that doesn’t bode well for either of them. He wants to be alone — or at least, as alone as either of them can be sharing a space like this. 

Dante, who’s already halfway across the room towards the door the presumably leads to his bedroom, freezes at the words. Vergil watches the play of emotions on his face and bites back a laugh. His brother must have been preparing to make a show of going to bed — on his own terms, of course — but now that Vergil’s all but told him to go, leaving seems to have completely lost its appeal. Dante has always been contrary like this, determined to walk to the beat of his own drum even when doing so is illogical and disadvantageous. 

(Vergil really shouldn’t find such an illogical and disadvantageous trait quite so… _endearing_. It must be a product of their shared blood, some kind of genetic trait that makes him tolerate and even enjoy behaviours in his kin that he would loathe in anyone else.) 

Eventually, Dante’s tiredness must win out in the mental argument his brother has with himself about _obeying_ Vergil, and he heads to bed. He makes sure to slam the door to his room harder than is strictly necessary, of course, but Vergil ignores it in favour of trying to calm his mind. Sleep, he knows, will not come tonight — not for either of them, unless Dante’s demon really is stupid enough to allow him to sleep in the presence of a powerful enemy. That doesn’t mean Vergil can’t attempt to rest, at least somewhat, using meditative techniques to encourage his body to heal itself without abandoning wariness. True sleep is difficult to come by as a solitary half-devil, and Vergil is confident he can fall back on his old ways to recover his strength, Dante or no Dante. He inhales, lets the air fill his lungs to their very limit, encouraging the oxygen to flow through his arteries and into aching muscles with every passing second and —

A sudden, creaky noise making Vergil’s eyes fly open as he flicks the Yamato up a few centimetres out of her sheathe, light catching on the blade’s sharp edge. His heart beats fiercely beneath his ribs, every fibre of his being tensed enough to snap, scarcely daring to breathe in case even the smallest noise prevents him from hearing the nearby threat. He may not be at full strength, but even weakened, he is more than enough to take on any demon who found its way into the mortal plane, even more so if he can get the jump on it. Vergil’s fingers close more tightly around the Yamato’s sheath, and he waits. 

The sound comes again, only this time Vergil recognizes it for what it is, and curses the flush of shame that accompanies his realization. In the next room, he can hear Dante move, his brother’s accursed bed springs squeaking for a third time as Dante tries to make himself comfortable, the sharp noise piercing the otherwise silent night. It’s been so long since Vergil had slept in a bed, much less slept in a house with a bed, that he’d forgotten all about just how loud they could be. Even so, he feels incredibly foolish about his reaction to it, and he resists the urge to vent his frustrations on his brother for startling him so. They are meant to be resting now, not fighting. Surely he has enough command over himself that he can choose to ignore his brother’s obnoxious mattress. 

It takes him longer than he would like to settle his heartbeat back to something more manageable, and even longer to get some semblance of control over his breathing. In the end, though, his efforts prove futile. Though he doesn’t spook again at Dante’s mattress, the sounds of the city still filter into the shop, keeping Vergil on edge. Whenever he thinks he’s finally settled, his ears catch the sound of a dog barking, or a car backfiring, or the drunken singing of humans on their way home from the bars, and his instincts prickle all over again. Keeping his eyes half-open does nothing to help. Outside, the streetlamps cast strange shadows through the windows, the wind rippling the dark shapes every time it catches the curtains. Worst of all, though, is the steady, pulsing presence of another demon mere feet away from him, Dante’s energy rippling across Vergil’s skin in waves that make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

By the time the sun creeps over the windowsill and through the half-opened curtains, Vergil’s body has run out of adrenaline spikes, but he hasn’t managed more than a handful of minutes of meditative rest. The arrival of morning should bring with it a sense of accomplishment; not only had he survived yet another day despite the odds, he’d also managed to come away from his tower-raising plan with some measure of success. Instead, Vergil stares at the filthy ceiling with dead eyes, wishing not for the first time since Dante had gone to bed that he had chosen different lodgings for the night. Right now, even Hell and its hordes of unrelenting demons seems an appealing place to take a nap. 

At least there he would be certain that the devils lurking nearby really were trying to kill him. 

He’s not sure what time it is when Dante finally stumbles out of his bedroom, making a beeline for the bathroom before Vergil can say a single thing. Which is fine, actually. It gives him more time to choose his words, something he desperately needs given the fact that his head feels like it’s full of cotton wool. 

“You’re up awfully late for someone who claims to run a business,” Vergil comments when Dante ultimately shuffles back out of the bathroom with a wide yawn that he belatedly covers with one hand. It’s a small consolation that his brother looks about as bad as Vergil feels, dark circles under his eyes and a pinched look that suggests he probably has the same headache that throbs dangerously behind Vergil’s temples. The pinched look quickly morphs into a full scowl when he sees Vergil, but the mulish expression is nothing new. He’d seen it enough times growing up to know that Dante is feeling sullen, a mood not easily lifted despite his brother’s otherwise headstrong temperament. 

Vergil waits for his brother to snark back, but it doesn’t come. It takes him a solid minute of squinting angrily around the room, looking everywhere but at Vergil, before he finally manages a grumbled, 

“Shut up.” 

Vergil can’t quite stop himself from snorting out loud. “Eloquent as always, little brother.” 

To this, he receives a middle finger, but nothing more out of Dante, who apparently does not cope with sleep deprivation quite as well as Vergil does. No matter. He will enjoy the quiet for what it’s worth, even if the silence is almost as tense as it was the previous night. Still, even Dante doesn’t appear to be willing to break it, and Vergil, though eyeing his brother warily out of the corner of his eye, also says nothing, resigning himself to this new existence with his brother. It’s not what he expected, truthfully, but Vergil could have done worse for himself, he supposes. 

-

In the days that follow they develop a kind of routine, relearning what it feels like to live together after not only so long apart but so long on their own. When they’re not testing the limits of their fraternal bond with cutting words and intentional jabs, they skulk around Dante’s unnamed store, neither one of them willing to leave but both equally unwilling to do more than just make sure their brother knows they’re there. It’s a lot of subtle posturing, in Vergil’s case, and feigned indifference, on Dante’s part, but at least they haven’t killed each other yet. 

Neither of them gets any sleep, though, because for all that they’re growing accustomed to each other, the lack of trust keeps both of them agitated and restless. 

On the third day of the cohabitation, while the two of them are engaged in a game of “sit in each other’s presence without acknowledging each other” that would make feline house pets jealous, the phone rings. Predictably, Dante does not rush to answer it. 

“ _Dante_ ,” Vergil hisses between clenched teeth after the fourth ring, because the sound is so shrill it feels like someone is jamming a knife repeatedly into his ear drum. 

In true little brother fashion, Dante — who is seated at the desk, well within reach of the phone currently demanding their attention — merely leans back a little further in his chair. 

“Don’t wanna. I’m busy.” 

With more flourish than necessary, he turns a page of the magazine he claims to be reading, though Vergil knows for certain that there are fewer words in it than most children’s story books. The blatant disregard makes a vein in Vergil’s temple throb. Blessedly, though, the caller gives up, and the phone is silent once more, letting Vergil get back to cleaning his sword. He will allow Dante’s behaviour to slide, for now. 

Except, Vergil isn’t so lucky the next time. 

The second caller of the day is far more persistent, staying on the line for a solid ten rings while Vergil glares daggers at Dante’s head. This one, too, Dante ignores, like he can’t feel the weight of Vergil’s stare and has forgotten that his brother could launch a barrage of summoned swords at him at any minute. (Or at the blasted phone, because that is the true culprit here, but Vergil isn’t sure destroying the phone is worth hearing his brother complain about it into the foreseeable future. He’s slowly remembering what it’s like, living with Dante, and while his brother may have grown taller, he doesn’t seem to have changed much in the maturity department.) 

Several hours later, Vergil’s in the middle of counting backwards from fifty in a weak attempt at meditation when the phone starts up _again_. When he looks at Dante in askance, he finds his brother “sleeping” this time, one of his dirty magazines draped over his face. The sight alone is enough to make Vergil’s already minuscule amount of remaining patience all but evaporate. Like a tiger on the hunt, he gets up off the couch and stalks towards the desk, ignoring the way his approach makes his brother tense all over. It’ll be worth taking a hit if it means he can stop the infernal screeching, even for a moment, and with decisive movements Vergil grasps the receiver and lifts it up to his ear, determined to put an end to this foolishness. 

All he hears is the dial tone, though, as he finds Dante’s fingers jammed into the cradle, effectively hanging up the phone before he could even say “hello.” Vergil stares at his brother’s hand for a long, tense moment, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing (except he absolutely can, because this is _Dante_ , and his brother is incapable of being anything but a _colossal pain in the ass_.) 

“Oops,” Dante says, his apologetic tone completely ruined by his smirk as he settles himself back in his chair. “My hand slipped.” 

It’s funny, really. Vergil must be experiencing the exact same phenomenon, as the moment he’s dropped the phone back onto its resting place, he finds himself hauling Dante over his desk by his jacket collar, his free hand clenched into a fist without his permission. Must be a twin thing. 

They hit the ground with a resounding _thud_ , bodies colliding in a completely undignified sprawl as they grapple like they used to as children. There’s no finesse and certainly no art to the whole thing, but it feels good all the same, Vergil channeling his frustrations and bad mood into every blow. Judging by the way Dante’s lashing out at him, he has a feeling his brother is just as grateful for the outlet. 

The fight ends rather prematurely as the would-be client actually calls back before they’ve resorted to biting and hair-pulling, the shrill sound of the phone making itself known above the grunts and growls of a tussling pair of angry half-demons. Dante looks at it almost as if on reflex, and Vergil uses his brother’s distraction to drive his elbow into Dante’s guts, winding him long enough for Vergil to get to his feet and answer the phone properly this time. 

He realizes, a little belatedly, that he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say to the caller, but decides it doesn’t really matter. It’s Dante’s fault that he doesn’t even know what this shop is called, after all, and Vergil is positive that nothing he can say can ruin people’s image of Dante or his business. His brother has undoubtedly done enough of that on his own. 

Planting his foot firmly in the centre of Dante’s back to keep him down, Vergil cradles the phone between his ear and his shoulder and growls, “ _What_.”

The terseness of his tone nearly shocks the caller into an early grave, but they recover their fortitude quickly enough. Vergil amuses himself by grinding the heel of his boot between Dante’s shoulder blades while the caller outlines their problem, grateful that he’s only half-listening because his brother’s disproportionate amount of squalling makes it difficult to properly hear the information. Yet even without Dante’s cacophony, he understands the situation well enough. This human is offering him a job. Perfect. 

As much as Vergil has no interest in doing the bidding of any human who wants to pretend like they hold his leash, right now he would relish any opportunity to get out of the shop. He knows that he’ll get used to having Dante around him, that his demon will settle down eventually, but right now? Right now, just having Dante near him, always hovering close enough to touch but still keeping some distance between them, makes his skin prickle. It feels almost like static, like the two of them are drawn together by some kind of unseen force, and yet the moment they get too close, they get shocked for their folly. The nature of their existence has always been as such though; harmful together but unable to remain apart. Even so, perhaps a reprieve will do them both some good. 

Vergil dismisses the caller when he’s been given enough information to take the job, dropping the phone back onto the cradle and leaving Dante to pick himself up off the floor unimpeded. He adjusts the Yamato at his hip and heads for the door, already mentally mapping out his route. 

From behind him, Dante calls, “Where are you going?” 

Vergil resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Out. Apparently there are demons to hunt, and I am in the mood to stretch my legs.” 

He doesn’t invite his brother along, and Dante doesn’t invite himself either, which is enough to warrant some sort of goodbye in Vergil’s books. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he gives Dante a single, pointed nod, before heading out of the shop and onto the pavement beyond. 

-

The excursion proves to be just what Vergil needed, even if the foe he fought wasn’t even worth sullying the Yamato’s blade. That nagging tightness in his chest had eased somewhat, his devil no longer on high alert now that he wasn’t in his brother’s presence, and — short though the battle was — he appreciated the opportunity to fight something all the same. There’s even an envelope of human money tucked into the inside pocket of his coat to show for his work, a type of currency he hasn’t even really handled since before his mother’s death. It feels strange to have it, stranger still to have earned it fair and square. Perhaps he’ll buy something nice to eat with it, or something nice to read, when he’s had a chance to have a closer look at what Dante’s city has to offer him. He’s too tired to do it now, limbs still achy despite his demonic regeneration, and all he wants to do is return to the couch and try to get some rest. 

Though it is growing dark by the time he returns, finding Dante’s shop is easy enough, despite the fact that it lacks a name and any distinguishing features to mark it as a business. (Dante is exactly the type of person to invest in a bright neon sign to announce his location to the world, but such a thing is, oddly, absent.) The lights are on inside, their uneven glow filtering through the windows, and Vergil can hear the high-pitched squeal of a guitar riff even before he turns down the appropriate street. It seems as though Dante had managed to get his jukebox to work again. A pity. 

His thoughts keep drifting back to that comfortable couch and the promise of respite, though, and as such, when Vergil turns the knob he does not expect the door to remain exactly where it is. He almost jerks himself into the wood, surprise making him stagger, and he scowls at the door as though it has a will of its own. More firmly this time, he makes another attempt at opening it, but the result is the same. The door does not move an inch. It’s strange… he did not remember Dante having this much trouble opening it when he replaced it the other day. 

Taking a moment to centre himself, he reaches out with his other senses, ignoring the music for the moment. He can smell what seems to be melted cheese and warm tomato sauce, mingled with a masculine scent that undoubtedly belongs to his brother, which means that Dante is most certainly in the shop. Moreover, from this distance he can definitely feel Dante’s demonic presence like a beacon of scarlet energy, burning brightly behind the door. As Vergil tries it again, jiggling it enough that he can hear something metallic rattle, he realizes with a growing sense of irritation that Dante has _locked the door._

And, more importantly, Vergil does not have the key. 

A small, petty part of Vergil wants to leave, to take this as a sign that Dante doesn’t actually want him here, and to just move on with his life. He can go off on his own, do his own research uninterrupted, and come back to take Dante’s amulet when he feels like raising another tower and making the jump into Hell. It’s not the first time Vergil’s lived on his own, and he suspects it will not be the last. Somehow, though, leaving now feels like giving up, like losing to Dante in some childish game, and Vergil has had quite enough of losing to his unruly little brother. 

With a sigh, he steps back from the door to size it up, calculating how much force he’ll need to use in order to break it down. Had this been any other demon stronghold, Vergil would have worried about wards or traps or anything that might stop a devil of his power from simply breaking and entering. As it stands, though, his brother is not clever or talented enough in the devilish arts to do anything of the sort. This door is just a regular slab of wood, and its metal bolt is not about to save it from a certain half-demon’s foot. 

Vergil kicks it down without even breaking a sweat, sending the door flying off its frame and watching with a kind of childish satisfaction as it lands flat on the shop floor. He can see Dante clear as day now, sitting on his desk and in the middle of lifting another piece of pizza towards his mouth, and Vergil meets his eyes unflinchingly. 

“I’m sorry, the door was a little stuck.” 

Vergil’s smile is all teeth as he steps pointedly on the now horizontal chunk of wood, walking the length of it just to make a point. He can see the briefest of hint of surprise flicker across his brother’s face, before Dante’s lips quirk upwards, his grin like the edge of a knife. 

“It does that from time to time. Coulda sworn you were always on my ass about manners when we were kids, and yet here you are walking away without closing the door behind you. And you call me barbaric.” 

He takes a messy bite of his pizza, and though Vergil recoils a little at the sight of the grease dripping down his calloused fingers, he isn’t completely immune to the way his mouth waters as the smell of it wafts past his nose. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s eaten, much less something human made or fresh, and he regrets this particular misstep. His stomach chooses that moment to remind him of its lengthy emptiness, giving a small, pathetic gurgle as though it doesn’t want to waste energy with its pleas. He ignores it and settles himself on the couch instead, folding his legs up underneath him and paying the gnawing ache in his stomach as much attention as he pays Dante. It will go away on its own if he gives it enough time, and he certainly isn’t about to stoop so low as to ask his brother for handouts. He’s not sure his pride will recover from that kind of a blow. Besides, hunger is a mere inconvenience. Tomorrow, he’ll go out with his new collection of paper money and buy himself something to eat and then— 

“Hey Vergil! Catch!”

Vergil reacts to the incoming projectile before his brain even registers Dante’s words, Yamato singing through the air as he slices the object to pieces. As perfectly cut slices of cardboard rain down around him, each with growing stains of saucy ooze, he realizes, belatedly, what it is he just cut. From the desk, Dante makes a noise of alarm. 

“I said catch! Aw man…” 

Instincts still bristling threateningly, Vergil flicks the pizza guts off his beloved sword with a disgusted noise, sheathing her with a silent apology. He hadn’t meant to use her in such a way, but he also hadn’t expected his brother to be stupid enough to throw something at him with barely a warning. Truly a fool in a class all his own. With narrowed eyes and severely ruffled feathers, he re-settles himself on the couch, Yamato’s guard resting on his shoulder, and tries to slow down the rapid beating of his heart. 

Vergil fully intends to give Dante a piece of his mind from his newly-claimed couch throne, except, when he looks up, he finds Dante already hopping off his desk, another box of pizza in his clutches. His approach makes Vergil tense all over again, a warning growl threatening to make itself heard, but for the first time since they started living together, Dante ignores the promise of violence with his characteristic stubborn resolve. 

Footfalls heavy, he marches over to the couch and deposits the box in his hands on Vergil’s lap without so much as a by your leave, his expression almost morose if Vergil were to try and place it. It hardly seems to matter that Vergil looks like a cornered animal, poised and ready to strike; now that he’s dropped off his cargo, Dante’s attention is completely and utterly focused on the remains of the initial pizza which Vergil had so effortlessly diced. 

“They already come pre-cut, you know.” The _idiot_ is left unsaid, but Vergil hears it anyways. He’d scowl more convincingly if he wasn’t so perplexed by Dante’s behaviour, watching as his brother starts collecting all the pieces of pizza worth salvaging. He makes a neat little pile of them all on the largest remaining chunk of box and then, alarmingly, Dante actually _plops down_ on the other end of the couch. Vergil can only stare at him, chagrin warring with a kind of morbid fascination as he watches Dante start eating his collection with the same gusto as he’d been devouring the earlier pieces. He must really enjoy the stuff if he’s not willing to let any of it go to waste. 

“You hungry or what? I’ll eat yours too, you know,” Dante threatens vaguely through a mouthful of cheesy goodness when he notices Vergil is just staring at him. 

It’s enough to spur Vergil into action, and with a derisive snort, he opens the box and starts on his own pie. They sit and eat in complete silence, stiff-limbed and not looking at each other, as though making direct eye contact is some kind of new taboo, sharing food in a way they haven’t done since they were children. Their mother would be appalled by this, to find them scarfing down fast food on the couch, no kitchen table or manners in sight. Then again, maybe she would understand. Their mother hadn’t exactly planned for them to raise themselves in a cold and unforgiving world where devils lay in wait to do them harm and humans could be just as cruel. She would probably just be glad that her sons were together again. 

For all that there is an element of camaraderie in this, Vergil can’t say he finds the whole experience enjoyable. The pizza is greasy, and he hates the residue it leaves behind on his fingers and his lips no matter how careful he is about handling it. Dante has no such qualms about the mess, and Vergil relinquishes the last piece of his pizza to his brother if only so he doesn’t have to figure out a way to get it neatly into his mouth. Beyond their meal choice, though, having his brother this close to him is doing weird things to his insides. There’s a strange kind of fluttering in his stomach, his senses hyper-aware of Dante’s every breath, and yet, the longer they remain on the couch, the more the tension between them starts to ease, in tiny but noticeable increments. His demon, too, is oddly silent despite being so close to a perceived threat. It still doesn’t trust Dante, but maybe… maybe that’s okay. 

Maybe this is the start of something, the foundation upon which they can build a new life, and learn to live together a little more easily. 

-

Somehow, the pizza sharing becomes somewhat of a routine — one that Vergil isn’t sure he particularly likes, but food is food and he is not about to complain about free sustenance. Dante, too, for all his griping, always ensures that there’s enough pizza left for Vergil as well, generous in a way that catches Vergil off guard. Even more curious, though, is the fact that Vergil finds himself more often than not drawn into more frequent conversations with his brother, who is suddenly more willing to “talk shop” now that Vergil has gone out on a job of his own. 

Of course, they still spend a great deal of time quarreling about the little things — “bickering”, as their mother would call it, but she’s not here to label their vices — but sometimes they just… talk, about normal things. There’s a lot they don’t know about each other, shaped as they have been by their many years apart, and Vergil finds himself growing more and more curious about the life his brother has lived without him. It’s a new and puzzling development — one that occupies Vergil’s mind when he spends his nights staring at the store’s ceiling. 

Sleep is the one thing that evades them both. He can tell by the darkening circles under Dante’s eyes that his brother suffers as he does, uneasy and unable to properly let his guard down, but Vergil is marginally confident they’ll get over this too. They’ve graduated to being in the same room together for an extended period of time without actively trying to kill each other, after all. All things considered, they’re doing pretty well for two half-demons who barely know each other. Vergil has even stopped flinching at sudden noises. 

Naturally, this is the perfect time for the local demon population to clue in that there are two Sparda-sired demons living under the same roof, and take that information as an invitation to attack. 

The twins are approaching the end of a single week together, a week made up of days and nights that seem to blend together in a haze of snarky comments and shared junk food and long hours staring at the ceiling. Vergil doesn’t leave the couch for very long, trying to save what energy he has left, and even Dante has given up going to his bedroom in the evenings, covering his face with magazines and pretending to “sleep” in his chair instead. 

(The magazines do not stop him from talking, sadly, and Dante has engaged him in many a debate with his voice muffled by several layers of glossy lewd photos.) 

They’re in the middle of one such half-hearted argument about the merits of using different types of Devil Arms when the ceiling caves in with a crash so colossal Vergil is sure that the entire block feels the vibrations. The creature that lands in the middle of Dante’s shop is as large as it is ugly, a massive creature with too many heads and not enough feet. 

“Spardaaaaaaa!” It howls, predictably, in the general direction of the two of them. Vergil can feel his eyebrow twitch. There can’t possibly be _two_ Spardas, but he supposes he should have known better than to bank on demonic intelligent. Dante, for his part, doesn’t even lift his magazine off his face, clearly unbothered by their sudden visitor. 

Vergil is, admittedly, very tempted to follow his brother’s lead in this. This demon is but one foe, barely worth the effort, and the thought of getting up to fight it makes Vergil’s limbs feel like they’re made of lead. He’s contemplating just how many summoned swords he needs to call upon to finish this awful creature when his instincts prickle with the arrival of more. Like ants swarming out of a disturbed nest, more devils use the first one’s entrance point to make their way into the front room, skittering along the ceiling and down the walls. Though none of them are of the calibre to seriously threaten either twin, their sheer numbers are enough to make Vergil’s devil writhe beneath his skin, the threat of being overwhelmed in such a weakened state very, very real. For a moment his hands grasp tightly at his sword, eyes darting around the room, trying and failing to count the foes and suss out the most efficient way to end them and— 

A bullet whizzes past Vergil’s head as Dante makes the first move, his brother finally emerging from beneath his reading material. His brother’s bored expression is somewhat ruined by the blood-red hue of his eyes, and Vergil’s devil shudders in warning. Even as his tension is ratched up another notch, though, seeing Dante move is enough to force him into action. He draws the Yamato without any further hesitation, and lets her blade answer the challenge of these lesser demons. Together, he and his brother dispatch of their guests, and even sluggish and weakened as they are, there is a synchrony to their movements that Vergil has never experienced with another. 

But their proximity is as bolstering as it is risky, the two of them playing a very dangerous game fighting this close to each other. They’re both stretched too thin, wrung out and sleep-deprived and high on adrenaline, and it’s only a matter of time before they make a mistake. When their swords slash through the final demon and bounce off each other, it’s like a switch has been flipped. Vergil can feel the moment Dante zeroes in on him, demonic instincts blurring the line between friend and foe, and he brings the Yamato up to defend himself without hesitation. 

He doesn’t remember much of the ensuing fight, running on a cocktail of instinct and violence. His demon surges through his blood as he rolls around on the floor, snapping and snarling at his brother. Judging by the resonance to Dante’s growls, his brother has done the same, a last-ditch effort to survive a battle against a foe of equal strength. Together they bite and rip and claw, grappling in the ashes of their enemies in a battle that is neither tactical nor intelligent. 

As a crimson haze bleeds across his vision, Vergil gives up on thinking altogether. 

-

When Vergil awakes — or, rather, slowly returns to consciousness — he finds himself half-curled up on a solid wooden surface, exactly where he must have collapsed after the battle. Despite how uncomfortable the floor is, his body feels like its been run over by a horde of angry Empusa, battered and achy in a way that makes even breathing uncomfortable. His thoughts feel scattered and sluggish, his limbs heavy and uncooperative, and he struggles to try and force his eyes open in an attempt to gain some control over his faculties. 

It isn’t the first time he’s pushed himself this hard; nor, he suspects, will it be the last. He remembers vividly dragging his trembling body along the damp, blood-slick ground, claws gouging chunks of earth free as he crawled, every fibre of his being screaming at him to stop and lick his wounds. That time, though, he’d been properly motivated; he’d been determined to reach his house no matter what the cost, to reunite with his family, and nothing was going to stand in his way. Vergil lacks that kind of motivation now, and it is only vigilance, worrying at his insides like a dog with a bone, that keeps him from settling down. 

As much as his body wants him to remain here and just rest for a few more minutes, Vergil cannot succumb to this weakness — not yet, anyways. He needs to ascertain his safety, first and foremost, and determine whether he can remain where he is. Taking a slow, careful breath and wincing at the way it rattles in his chest, Vergil reaches out with his sharper senses, searching for anything that might pose a threat to him. Even without his sight he can still feel the presence of demons, smell the distinct odours of battle and bloodletting, hear the conversations of humans a block away if he tries hard enough. He holds his breath for one heartbeat, two, three, four, and then releases it, quietly parsing the new information he’s been given. Luckily, there doesn’t seem to be anything nearby — nothing that his devil immediately recognizes as a worthwhile threat, anyways. 

It recoils a little, though, when a warm body presses itself closer, and Vergil forces his eyes open enough to squint at the interloper. A familiar face swims in and out of focus as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. For a moment, all he can make out is red and beige and white, and when he tries to move a hand up to rub at his eyes he finds that his fingers are curled tightly around a thick but supple material that he is reluctant to release. He blinks once, twice, and then the blob in front of him finally sharpens into something he can actually understand. 

It’s Dante. His brother is tucked right up against him, shoulder to shoulder, one leg draped over Vergil’s hip and his forehead pressed against Vergil’s own. He has one hand splayed across Vergil’s chest, right over his heart, while the other is curled up near his face. Judging by the evenness to his breathing, he’s fast asleep, as Vergil had been mere moments ago. 

While his devil makes its half-hearted complaints known about Dante’s proximity, it is completely eclipsed by a wave of nostalgia so soul rending that it leaves Vergil breathless. It’s been ten years since he'd woken up like this, his brother’s body against his own, the warmth of Dante’s breath tickling his face. They used to sleep like this as children, a tangle of gangly limbs and sharp edges, fitting together like two halves of a whole despite the way they antagonized each other when they were awake. It’s so hauntingly similar to the past, and yet, it is impossible for it to be a memory. The Dante before him wears the same face Vergil wears now, leaner and more mature, bearing the marks of their isolated survival even softened as it is by sleep. 

Despite their similarities, Vergil can’t help but stare at his brother’s face, drinking in the quiet, almost peaceful expression. In truth, it’s not a look he expected to ever see again, least of all when Dante knew that Vergil was there with him. That he can sleep so easily while in the presence of such an obvious threat is… strange, to say the least. Vergil’s not sure how he’s supposed to interpret this behaviour. Is this a sign of trust? Dante had been the one to invite him into his home in the first place, after all, so perhaps this is just more proof that his brother genuinely does want him there, maybe even wants to regain the bond that they had lost. On the other hand, Dante could have just been too tired to think, drawn unconsciously to the nearest warm body without a care of who it was. But then, shouldn’t his demon have protested, even a little, especially given how viciously they’d just fought? The whole thing is far too much of a puzzle for his sleep-deprived brain, but it makes Vergil squint at his brother all the same, equal parts curious and disconcerted. 

Dante wrinkles his nose as if he can sense the scrutiny in his sleep, and burrows closer, curling his knee more tightly around Vergil as though afraid he might get up. This, too, Dante used to do when they were children, and Vergil has to close his eyes for a moment at the swell of raw emotion that makes something shudder deep in his chest. It’s been so, so long since he’s had this, and a part of him warns against letting himself get comfortable, of letting himself reforge the bond between them because he knows intimately just how much it will gut him if he loses Dante again. Attachments like this will only slow him down, make him weak and vulnerable in all the ways he detests, and reciprocating this affection can only lead to more suffering. 

He needs to get up, to make his way back to the couch, but… 

Against him, Dante mumbles sleepily, “Veeergil... 'f you don’t share ’m gonna tell mom…” 

This, too, is achingly familiar, and Vergil finds himself closing his eyes again with a rueful huff of laughter. He was going to tell their mother, huh… It was nice, in a way, to know that Dante still dreamt of their life together, before Mundus had seen fit to tear them brutally apart. Vergil sucks in another painful breath, the exhaustion weighing as heavily on him as the burden of their shared past. What’s a few more minutes like this in the grand scheme of things? He can leave at any time, after all. This is just a temporary comfort. 

But even as the thought drifts through Vergil’s mind, he finds his fingers unconsciously tightening around fistfuls of Dante’s jacket. It’s difficult to feel disappointed with himself though, despite his best efforts, and instead of pulling away, Vergil presses himself closer to his brother and lets the warmth of his body and the solace of his touch lull him to sleep. 

Their mother might not be here to look out for them anymore, but at least they have each other again.


End file.
